


Here and Now

by SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [32]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Gen, Nipawin (1991-1995)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:06:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1995: Here and now, in Nipawin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here and Now

"No, I really do think that it could work out." Corporal Chase gestured. "You have to be better than Mitch."

Turnbull laughed quietly, rubbing over his eyes, then looked across the window frame of 420 to 414. There were a few reasons he balked at the notion of joining the Corporal's curling rink, but Chase was rather good at presenting an argument, and those reasons were getting more difficult to justify as time went on. The line no longer seemed quite so important, between the personal and the professional. "Sir, I'm not entirely certain that our professional association would survive when faced with such a foe as _curling_."

"Hey, I didn't dump Mitch into the river for making us lose last week."

"I know that Guy Laurent is currently looking for a new rink..."

Chase stared at him. "I think I'd rather take a stone to the head."

"He is very good, sir," Turnbull replied, keeping a straight face. He knew perfectly well what the Corporal's opinion was on Guy. For that matter, at least half of the time, he shared that opinion; that the man was a menace to society. The rest of the time, of course, he was... well, Guy was still a menace to society, but he was Turnbull's friend. "I could mention it to him."

"Don't you _dare_ , Turnbull." Chase mock-shuddered at the thought, then tapped his thumb against his window-frame. "Just think about it. You have a whole off-season to decide."

"I shall give it my solemn consideration, sir," Turnbull said, nodding as seriously as he could manage to.

"Okay, good." Chase was apparently satisfied with that and looked back out over First, watching the traffic go by.

They had passed each other patrolling, and in time-honored tradition, had pulled over into a parking lot to talk for a little while and keep an eye on the cars and trucks that passed. Now, the sound of the engines mingled in with that of light traffic, and occasionally, a cold gust of wind crossed between the cruisers and mixed with the hot air of the heaters running. Outside, the streetlights and business lights cast familiar shadows.

The silence fell for a companionable several minutes, then Chase said, "All right, I'm going to take another loop around, then head home."

"Have a good night, sir," Turnbull answered, putting his foot on the brake and shifting 420 out of park.

"You too." Chase tipped a salute. "Be safe, rook."

 

 

Constable Mitchell was on vacation, before cottage and tourist season started, and Turnbull had been pulling an extra four hours every day for the past week, on top of his usual graveyard shift, in order to back up Corporal Chase for the latter half of afternoons. The overtime was good for any number of reasons, but if he were to speak frankly, he would simply say that he was happy to do it.

Such was the truth.

In part for Corporal Chase; he enjoyed working with the man, even when they spent most of that time as a voice on the other end of the radio or a brief roadside chat. In part for something to do with himself; he had no rink, the season was almost over, it was too muddy to hike and there was only so much he could hang around with Guy.

For the most part, he was happy to do it for Nipawin. This was his home; it was his honor.

Turnbull drifted his cruiser through the streets that were steadily winding down as the first flakes of new snow fell; winter tended to last a long time here, though it was slowly, grudgingly giving way to spring. People headed home from an evening out or from work; often they would wave to him as he passed, and when he could catch it in the darkness, he would wave back.

When his contract had come up, and he could have transferred anywhere his general duty experience allowed; when he could have chosen to go on and specialize and perhaps return to Ontario, he had chosen to stay here.

Now, patrolling long familiar streets, there was no thought in his head about anywhere else in the province, in the country or in the world.

The snow picked up; light, fine flakes that came down in a torrent. It was going to be slick on the roads, and he slowed down automatically, shifting mentally to watching for the blink of hazard lights from vehicles that slid off of the road.

 

 

"You'd think, after living here for fifteen years, I'd know better."

The man -- John Haines -- stood next to his car and looked at it with a wry, sheepish smile. The car itself was in a ditch, dug into new snow and old mud, and the hazard lights and the lights of 420 mingled with the few street lights along this stretch, making the world look brighter than it actually was.

"Oh, I wouldn't venture _that_ ," Turnbull answered, good-naturedly, glancing back along the dark road and waiting for the lights of the wrecker. His own cruiser's overhead lights were on, marking the accident, and the flash of red and blue and white reflected off the heavily falling snow. "This did rather come out of nowhere."

"I suppose," Haines said, digging his hands into his pockets, presumably to keep them warm. "Not looking forward to telling my wife, though."

Turnbull watched the gesture; detecting no edginess or suspicious body-language, he relaxed again fractionally. The man wasn't drunk, wasn't impaired, and his record was mostly clean, aside from an old prior for driving under the influence from a number of years before. Turnbull reflected that Haines was probably lucky to have been discovered by him, instead of one of the highway patrol units.

"Ah, but conversely, she'll likely be glad to have you home safely," he said, at length.

"Until she sees the front end of the car, anyway." Haines shook his head; he was still smiling, though. He looked back at Turnbull, then, eyebrows drawn up. "Can I ask a stupid question?"

"There are no stupid questions," Turnbull answered, taking his hat off briefly to knock the snow off of it.

"Am I getting a ticket?"

Turnbull eyed the car, eyed the man, then put his hat back on and shook his head with a little smile. There was no damage, aside to the car; no one was hurt, and the worst they had to contend with was the inconvenience. "No."

Haines blinked once, then his eyebrows went higher. "...a lecture?"

Turnbull blinked back. "Do you need one?"

There was a long, long moment where Haines appeared to think about it, then he grinned. "No, Constable, I'm pretty sure I've put together what I did wrong here."

"Indeed." Turnbull grinned back, then raised his own eyebrows and did his best to look solemn. "I cannot, however, speak for your wife."

Haines groaned, pulling his hand out of his pocket to rub over his face. "Thanks for reminding me."

They were still chuckling when the lights of the wrecker broke through the snow.

 

 

Turnbull stopped back at the quiet detachment building and made himself some tea, then headed out again.

The radio traffic tapered off as the night wore on; he was well familiar with that particular pattern. Once in awhile one of the Yorkton units would get a call; often, at this hour, they and he were the only bravo cars actually on the road in this zone, over three hundred kilometers apart.

Now, he was starting to strongly contemplate his bed. It had been a long week; even glad to do it, to work quite that much overtime, he couldn't deny that he was tired. The idea of going home, pulling off his uniform, stretching out his back and shoulders and sleeping until well past a reasonable hour was undeniably appealing right now. It often happened that way; the shift to quiet, and the growing desire for no calls to come in. He didn't want to get out of his cruiser until it was time for him to clock out and go home, though he certainly would if he was needed.

The solitude was just as comfortable and comforting as it always had been.

He had his window partway down, in part to listen and in part so that he could keep himself alert with the cold air. Occasionally, a shift in the wind drove snowflakes through the gap to hit his face and melt, and he liked that feeling, contrasted to the warm air blowing through his cruiser. His air freshener had long-since worn out, but he could still catch the vague traces of vanilla, even after all of this time.

The snow was tapering off, at least; instead of a torrent, lazy flakes drifted down. He ticked his thumb back and forth on the smooth spot worn into the steering wheel, peering out for anything out of place, anyone needing help, any cars off of the road.

The tourist and cottage season was coming up soon; the long days of summer, the new faces, the old faces returning. Turnbull didn't mind; summer kept him extremely busy, and he loved how the nights felt. Here, where visibility could stretch for miles in some places across a flat horizon, he could spot the dance of lightning and feel the weight of thunder long before it hit. Here, where nights were black and sometimes humid, the stars were bright enough and close enough that he fancied he could touch them, if he just stood tall enough on his toes and reached.

Here, in the hour before the first twilight, when his body was tired and his mind was settled and calm, when the summer air was edged cool with dampness that would become dew, he was certain he could feel the world hold its breath.

Now, it was still some ways away, but Turnbull was looking forward to it.

 

 

Breakup was impending on the Saskatchewan River; the ice was rotting and threatening. Turnbull doubted he would get to see it, but there was always some measure of wonder to drive over a frozen river one night and a clear one the next. It was, in his own mind, the final give over from winter to spring, and then he'd have to concern himself with more mud than snow.

Crossing Nipawin's CPR bridge remained one of his favorite patrol routes, especially at night; it was hazardous in poor conditions due to the crooked nature of the road, but he liked the way the girders looked surrounding him, liked knowing that the railroad ran above his head, liked the river below.

Now, conditions weren't so poor; there was a faint glow of moonlight shining through the clouds, turning the bridge into a black silhouette against deep blues and grays, and he smiled a little to himself as he turned the angles of the road. The bridge was untreated and unplowed; there were no tire tracks, aside those that he and 420 would leave behind. And to the sides, the drifts of snow piled up against the cross-hatched railing, adding to the impression of an industrial tunnel.

On the other side, the road would curve gently southwest, then loop up northwest until it became due north; it would open to wide-open prairie land where, on stormy summer nights, he would watch the lightning from a distance and anticipate the thunder. Then, he would run into 55, the Water Route, and come back down again. Tomorrow, he would do the same and in the days and weeks and months thereafter, watching the world slide from winter to spring to summer, then back to fall and into winter again.

Here, in the hours before dawn, when his body was tired and his mind was settled and calm, when the winter night was peaceful and his cruiser shielded him from the cold, he never realized for even a moment that there would be no tomorrow.

Now, something caught in his headlights.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  


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"Bravo four-two-oh."  


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_"Bravo four-two-oh...?"_  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
_"Bravo four-two-oh, advise a code?"_  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
_"Bravo four-two-oh, advise a code **please**."_  


  
  


  
  


  
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"Bravo four-two-oh..."  
  
  


  



End file.
